Reverence for Water (Halifax)

One woman stood in front of the others, central. 24 women lined up behind her. They were all dressed the same, simply, elegantly. Many, if not most, of them were First Nations or descendants.

Blue shimmering cloths were strewn about the floor, representing water. The women moved among the cloths as they sang and danced. They stepped in the imaginary water, spread it on their hands, splashed it on each other, looked upon it in wonder.

The woman in front told a long story, mixed with song. She spoke in a childlike voice of wonder, with kindness and curiosity, rage and pain in her voice. She spoke of revering water, of feeling like it was her mother and that she belonged in it. She cried as she spoke of the pain of the ocean, its limited resources, its pollutions, the endangered sea creatures. She screamed in rage as she addressed the apathy of men. The women’s choir moved in unison behind her, reacting to her emotions, feeling everything she was feeling.

The performance took place in the middle of the Maritime Museum. The backdrops were literal sailboats and blue paint, wooden masts and wave patterns. It was haunting. In the right company, it could have been silly. But here, with these people in this place, it arrested me. I was deeply moved.

The next morning, I got up early to see the sunrise. I walked down the hill to the shoreline and walked along the docks. There were a few dog walkers, a couple holding hands in Adirondack chairs, a few scattered joggers. I found a seat at the edge of the water and looked to the horizon. The breeze hit my skin and a shiver passed through me.

My eyes moved to the water’s surface. It rippled and billowed. It was dark black and blue, with white cascades across the top. The sun peaked over the hill and reflected on its surface. I took a moment to consider the landscape I’d been walking across the last few days, with rolling hills, long flat stretches, higher peaks, and different types of soil and plants growing out of each area. All of that diversity, in soil and terrain and plants, extended out there, under the water. It was shallow and deep, hilly and flat, with different patches of sediment and plant life everywhere. The water could extend up over the land or recede farther. It was sheer power, sheer beauty.

The angry, compassionate, pained, joyful chorus of women from the night before passed through my head, and I breathed in deeply.

A head bobbed out of the water and I gasped aloud. “Oh my God,” I whispered in awe. I gestured to the couple in the Adirondacks. “Look!” A large dark brown head, a black nose, extending whiskers, dark black eyes. The creature was breathing. I could hear it breathing. If I laid down on the dock and reached out, I could touch it. The harbor seal was on its back, its face and flippers poking out of the water. My sons would have screamed with joy. They love seals. I watched the creature, lazily floating, diving back under, floating more, for about fifteen minutes, before it descended and didn’t rise again.

A few hours later, I climbed on board the Kawartha Spirit. It was windy and raining as the captain called out, “All right, guys, let’s do ‘er!”, and the boat pulled away from dock. An elderly man, a local, talked for nearly two hours about the history of the port as we moved out into the bay, toward the deeper ocean. He cracked Dad jokes every few minutes, and I groaned at everyone of them. “If anyone yells man overboard, we’ll save ya! Never had to yell woman overboard yet, women are much too sensible to jump in, less’n a man pushed ’em, then they prob’ly deserved it!” and “You might see snowshoe hares on the horizon but don’t get too close or they’ll run away! In Canada, we call that a receding hare-line!” and “You may see men drinking while fishing over on the shoals. Their wives want them to come home, but they prefer their whiskey on the rocks!”

The boat moved with the waves, sloshing side to side, as the man recounted the different kinds of marine life that could be seen here in the harbor. “The farther you go out, the bigger the animals get!” Mackerel, herring, bluefin tuna, Atlantic sunfish. Lobsters and crabs. Lots of seals, but mostly the harbor kind. Fin whales, minke whales, harbor porpoises, white whales that are critically endangered (less than 400 left in the world), pilot whales, humpback whales. Cormorants, gulls, and thresher birds. On the shore, beavers, brown bears, raccoons, coyotes, caribou, lynx. At one point, the boat stopped to pull in a lobster cage. He showed us three large lobsters (and one frightened rock crab) talked about their reproductive cycles, their life spans, how they can regrow limbs, how they never stop growing until they die, then he let them go.

The boat pulled out farther as he discussed the impact of Hurricane Juan, the military bases on various islands in the 1700s, and during World Wars 1 and 2. He talked about U-Boat fights and sunken ships. He spoke with reverence about the Native Americans who’d lived in this region for thousands of years.

I gazed at the dark grey water with wonder before I spotted the white bird with the golden cap. Later, after asking, I learned it was a gannet, but some call it a dive-bomber. It has water-proof feathers, I was told, and special membranes that close over its eyes so it can be protected in the water. I watched the impressive bird fly high into the sky, then dramatically arc down to the water, plunging in at full speed with a loud splash. It was under for nearly thirty seconds before emerging with a fish in its talons. It sat atop the water a moment, spread its wings, and flew away. Then I saw a porpoise fin and three more harbor seal heads bob up. There was life. Everywhere.

The wind shifted and the boat twisted horribly from side to side, like a massive teeter totter. It rolled heavily in the waves and I felt myself go green for the next 20 minutes. I put my head down on the table and breathed evenly until we were back on land.

Later, I watched the sun set. The water turned black again. The gulls went quiet. And I turned my back to the ocean, thinking of plastics, and oil spills, and hurricanes, and how I, we, all of us are very, very fragile, and very, very temporary, while the ocean remains.

Sequoia (Halifax)

“Have you ever been to the Cathedral Forest on Vancouver Island? It’s really sumthin’, let me tell ya. The trees are some kinda mutants, they grow larger than anywhere, a thing’a real beauty.”

The singer, Lennie Gallant, had a reverence in his voice as he spoke, something that made me listen a bit more carefully.

“They’ve grown there for hundreds of years. Human lives are a blip to them. They could tell us so much about what the world is really like, about what life on this planet is supposed to be. They’ve withstood fires, storms, winds, stone, and man. They’re built to survive, and they give life back to the world. Now they are facing their greatest challenge yet. Let’s see if they can withstand Donald Trump.”

The crowd of mostly Canadians tittered and groaned at the joke that wasn’t a joke, and it gave me a taste of how they must view America and the way it is hitting the news. I had to laugh right along with them.

And then Gallant started to sing. He sang of sequoias. There was a reverence in his voice, a mysticism, an abiding respect. In the chorus, he sang the word ‘Se-QUIO-a’ over and over and it sent chills down my spine. I closed my eyes and felt goosebumps on my skin.

The entire evening had been magical so far. The show, called the Argyle Street Kitchen Party, was sold out, but I’d walked in and asked for a ticket for 1 and they worked me in to a seat on the stage. Literally on the stage. I was seated with about 12 other audience members behind the band as they performed for the crowd, all of them facing me. The stage was set up to look like a comfortably home kitchen, with haphazard and poorly upholstered chairs, a kitchen table, a fridge, shelving, and linoleum floor. It was… adorable.

Four performers sang through most of the show, all of them from north-eastern Canada (Nova Scotia, Prince Edward Island, New Brunswick), all of them insanely talented musicians, performers, and songwriters. Ian Sherwood, Celia Koughan, Malia Rogers, and Karen Lizottle. They played fiddles, hand drums, tambourines, piano, guitars, and a saxophone. They clogged and danced. They harmonized. They cracked regional jokes that I didn’t understand but the audience laughed at. I clapped in rhythm, sang harmonies, stomped my foot, and clapped my hand against my leg. It was amazing.

The evening was spent listening to slow jazz, blues, bluegrass, and folk songs of the region, some classics and some original. And I’d never heard a single one, but the entire crowd chimed in on many of the choruses. I didn’t speak to anyone really, but I felt completely one with them.

It was the perfect end to an incredible day, one where I’d spent a lot of time searching my soul while walking through the new city. My walk covered shops and shopping, enormous public parks full of flowers, and beautiful shoreline.

In my head, I resisted the urge to compare communities like this in Canada to similar ones in the United States. I said in a Facebook post that Canada feels like America without all the arrogance. And I meant it. People are more polite here, in my experience. They is a much greater effort at inclusion and understanding. Canada has similar dark parts to their history, but there is a lot of work at owning that history. For example, just tonight, in the very theater I was in, there had been an opening announcement about how this land had originally been owned by the First Nations people in Canada; with a few words, they mentioned local tribes by name and told the audience where to learn more. As I walked the streets, there was a sense of safety as I looked over people from all different backgrounds and lives. There were Pride flags and rainbow crosswalks everywhere. It was charming, inclusive, accepting. I felt safe here. The sense of xenophobia, that undercurrent of gloom and doom that exists in America these days, seemed to be missing. The world here feels hopeful, not like it is slowly going to hell. (SeQUIOa).

I ended the night at a local gay club, bizarrely called Menz and Mollyz. A drag queen with a name like Sharon Shenanigans did an I Love Lucy routine. A DJ in his 60s blasted old hits from the 90s and early 2000s (I actually danced to Karma Chameleon) as a small crowd of men and women danced. It was after midnight (still only 9 pm back home) and I danced my ass off while sober, interacting with the crowd, getting hit on and loving the attention. I was exhausted and my heart was full.

And then it was back to the Airbnb with the open windows and the ocean breeze and the quiet. I needed this trip. I needed it.

Sleeping naked in Halifax

I slept naked last night. I can’t remember the last time I slept naked.

I’m not sure what compelled me. Even at home, I sleep in shorts usually, although sleeping naked would be no big deal. Sleeping naked makes me think of being 16. I was a repressed Mormon teen then who tried so hard to obey all the rules by the letter. And sleeping naked then felt like a little act of rebellion, like I was doing something wrong without actually breaking a rule, like I could get caught and in trouble, but the door was locked so I wouldn’t be.

I felt the need to just feel the sheets against my skin. I’m staying in Halifax in a little Airbnb apartment on the waterfront. There is no air-conditioning, so I opened all of the windows and let the ocean breeze blow in. It blustered against my sheets and restored me, somehow.

I slept strangely. I went to bed at 2 am (which is 11 back home) and woke up at 9 am (which is 6 back home), so it was my normal sleeping schedule but it felt different. My body was sore from the long plane ride and the four mile walk I went on last night. My back ached, my hips hurt. All of that was normal as well, but it was mixed with the ocean breeze.

I woke to the sound of gulls. I woke smiling.

After coffee and eggs and cheese, I took a long walk along the water front. Last night, I felt guilt ridden and self-sham-ey. Today, I feel at peace. My mind is revisiting the goals I set years ago, all of which I achieved (well, almost all) and I took a moment to commune with the Chad that existed in 2014, the one who would have looked forward to my life now wand been so hopeful and happy. So I let him speak through me, and I leaned into hopeful and happy, and it felt wonderful.

I watched a tugboat with a cartoon face on the front chug by. I looked at art that has been set on the docks by the ocean. I petted big fluffy dogs, with their owner’s consent. There were several street musicians out, like the kind you see at Farmer’s Markets, except all of them very, very Canadian. One man intensely played the electric guitar, with his teeth clenched and his eyes in a permanent wince, wearing a t-shirt and jeans that were several sizes too large. A woman in a wheelchair played a normal radio at her feet while adding percussion to the songs with finger cymbals. A handsome college student strummed a harp.

I looked at the small sea of people moving around me, of every shade. Chubby folks in camouflage, a Japanese family, a couple with dark skin wearing turbans and embracing, an interracial elderly couple cuddled up on a bench, two dads with kids… and I realized that everyone was smiling. And still the breeze blew.

A little farther down the docks, there was an actual Farmer’s Market. Fresh blueberries, golden beets, juicy pears, hand-knit stuffed animals, homemade soaps, bottled wine, glazed donuts. I sat and just watched, and it felt like perfection.

I’ve been hard on myself lately. Instead of doing things I love because I love them, I’ve been doing things I love and expecting a particular kind of result, and then feeling so frustrated when those results haven’t panned out at my expectation levels.

I’m telling stories every month that I’m so proud of, and interfacing with an incredible community of writers and storytellers. I’m out of debt and, while not wealthy, doing well enough to travel regularly. I wrote a book! I made a movie that is nearly completed (the editing phase is intense!) I have a handsome and loving partner at my side. I’ve cultivated friendships that will last a lifetime. My children are happy and well.

I have so much to be thankful for. And yet I’ve been so frustrated with myself for not doing more, having more, being more.

And perhaps that is the lesson I need to take from Halifax this week. I can keep working on goals, but I have to spend more time finding gratitude. Challenge can be met with comfort, ambition with a quiet heart, endeavors with patience.

I think I’ll sleep naked again tonight.

Skeleton of myself (story form)

**I shared this story at the Voices Heard: First Time event on August 21, 2019**

My wife was soft in all the right places. She was beautiful, with long hair cascading down her back.

As she undressed, in the Romeo and Juliet suite, I gave her a reassuring smile, as it to convey how interested I was in her. My stomach churned, full of vinegar, and I felt the need to rush to the bathroom and relieve it, but I stood there. This was our wedding night, what we had both been waiting our entire lives for. We loved each other. We had chosen each other. This is how it was supposed to be.

We married on June 17. Six months earlier, I had found Maggie in tears, wondering if we were ever going to get married. We’d been dating off and on for six years, she said. We loved each other, she said. What was holding us back, she said. That night, I swallowed a stone and finally told her the truth. I’m gay, I said. I’m attracted to men. That was the night of my first kiss. I was 27 years old.

Maggie and I had done things the right way. We had saved ourselves for marriage, and married in the temple for time and all eternity. We knelt at the altar, wearing those bizarre white clothes and hats and green aprons, and saw our reflections in alternating mirrors, making it look as if we extended forever.

But once we were in that hotel room, there was no more hiding. I could no longer use the excuses I’d been using for years, to avoid physical contact with women. I couldn’t say I was focused on school, or that I was trying to be a good Priesthood holder, or that I didn’t want to rush things. This night, above all others, I had to man up, show myself that I could be the type of man she needed me to be, that God required me to be.

And so we undressed and kissed and touched and explored. We used our hands and mouths. Our bodies pressed into each other. We took a break to grab the bottle of lube that a friend had slipped into my pocket earlier (along with a note that said ‘trust me, you’ll need this’). I’d never been touched like this, never been naked in front of anyone like this before. And I discovered quickly that I could keep that sour pickles look off my face if I pictured attractive men in my mind.

And then, just like that, the mystery was over. A few thrusts, a wet explosion, and then a change of sheets. Sex is much messier than they ever tell you in the movies. There was blood and lube and ejaculate and fluid, and the entire process felt… sinful.

That night, Maggie fell asleep in my arms and I lay there, awake, for hours. I’d kept a lamp on, not able to bear being in the dark that night. I lay there, and I wept. I considered praying, asking God why, after all my efforts to be righteous, I still wasn’t straight. But I knew he wouldn’t answer. And so I lay there, with the woman I loved, knowing that I could never do enough to be the man she deserved. I twisted the new ring on my finger in anguish, pulled up the covers, turned out the lights, and went to sleep, my pillowcase soaked in tears.

Six years went by. I bought a home and got a dream job. After a few years, we had a baby. I taught Sunday school, paid tithing, performed baptisms. I gained and then lost 80 pounds. I had the picture-perfect life on the outside, and felt dead within, like happiness was something that was meant for other people. For me, it could only come in some mystical afterlife, where I’d be honored with happiness because of all of the years of sacrifice. Sex held no joy for me and no pleasure. I found every reason to avoid it, and got it over with as swiftly as possible when I couldn’t hide. It churned my stomach that I could see such a perfect life from the outside in, and yet it hadn’t been enough to change me.

And then everything changed. I went on a business trip and there was a man there. Doug. He smiled at me. He flirted, and I found myself flirting back. Our legs touched during a seminar and electricity shot through us. My heart quickened. He offered me a Hershey’s Kiss, and instead I asked for a real one. My real first kiss was at the age of 32. We found a quiet hallway and made out like teenagers in the back of a car. My hands found his waist, his chest, his hips. He bent my neck back and pressed me up against a wall. We pushed our bodies against each other and fumbled our way back to my hotel room. Clothes were tugged at and removed. His mouth moved across my skin, my hands clutched at his back. I lay back on the bed and he sat on top of me and I watched his eyes roll back in pleasure as he began rocking back and forth. Afterward, we lay in each other’s arms and he dozed briefly. I was at peace, my skin still electric. And then the tears came again, but for entirely different reasons this time. I realized that I felt whole. Despite the fact that I had just cheated on my wife, everything felt right. I realized that for the first time in my life, I had just orgasmed and not felt ashamed afterward. My stomach wasn’t churning. This, this felt like the Hollywood movies, with passion and hunger behind each movement. This felt right. There was no going back after this, no way I could return to my previous life, no way I could ever feel broken again.

 

Skeleton of Myself, a poem written to God

 

I reduced myself before you.

I sucked in my stomach and puffed out my chest,

Seeking to be both small and strong.

 

I lay at your feet and cried

At my own unworthiness.

 

I raised my arm to the square

And demanded you notice me.

 

I ignored your harsh words,

Convinced they were only for my good.

 

I took on a new name

And thrust my hands in the air

While I begged you to hear the words of my mouth.

 

I listened, ever so carefully,

So sure that in the silence

I would find you.

 

I walled off entire sections of me,

separating them from the rest,

forgetting that they were there.

 

I held my breath

Until I forgot how to breathe.

then turned blue from the cold.

 

I tried anger, pain, depression, apathy.

I tried being a martyr.

I gave two years. Ten. Twenty.

I placed a ring on my finger

And made promises I couldn’t possibly keep.

I contemplated death by my own hand.

 

And as the years passed,

I slowly, ever so slowly,

Withered away,

Becoming the skeleton of myself

That you expected all along.

 

And then one day,

The sun hit my skin just right,

And I realized,

With finality,

That you were there all along

For you were never there to begin with.

First day in Halifax

There is always something so romantic about visiting a new city. Something enticing. The thought of being on new streets, a stranger in the crowd, it appeals to me. It awakens part of my soul. Always, every time.

Until I get there.

When I actually arrive somewhere new, I generally get a sense of disconnection, both outwardly and with myself. All my little demons, the ones I’ve been staving off by being too busy and too involved and too focused on other people, they rise up to the surface, and I have to learn how to embrace them all over again.

Think of it like a road trip. We romanticize the idea of road trips all the time. We think of the music and the laughter, the snacks and the long open road… but then we go on the trip and three hours in we are so done with the car. We grow frustrated, discontent, stir crazy. Those are the little demons I’m talking about.

One of the reasons I travel alone a few times per year is it makes me practice being at peace with myself. It requires grace toward me. It requires resisting shame, embracing loneliness, moving at a slower pace. And in the end, I’m glad I did it every time. I need it. My spirit thrives on it. Too long without some solo time in a new place and I fall back on bad habits. I grow too self-critical. The expectations I have for myself grow too high and I get consistently frustrated because I can never measure up. I find myself forever making excuses. But travel, it awakens my desire to be better, to refocus, to begin thinking I’m capable again.

So today I landed in Halifax. I watched clouds over the ocean and forever rolling green from the plane. I contemplated man’s habit of dividing everything into squares and straight lines and sharp corners–there is no better place to see this from than the sky. I talked to two young men from England on the plane. I felt good. I gathered my things, grabbed a cab, and breathed in ocean air on the long drive into the city. I dropped my bags off in a small Airbnb, and immediately went back out to start exploring.

I must have walked four miles. I saw homeless men ask for change. I saw happy couples sipping red wine and drinking pasta. I poked my head in to listen to a band that called itself “a mix between emo and Motown”. I saw overly dressed men and women look each other over outside of bars. I saw too many humans passing paper to each other for goods wrapped in plastic. No one noticed me, or if they did, they paid little attention. I was entirely anonymous and on new streets, exactly what I’d needed.

And sure enough, the demons showed up, the little negative voices, the old pre-programmed thoughts that have to force themselves out and remind me they are there.

Who travels alone? Pathetic. You’re going to get bored here, you’re going to stay too long, you’re going to regret it. You could have done this at home. You flew all the way out here just to walk the streets? No one even notices you here. You could go days without a conversation. What are you even doing here?

The voices stayed small, which made it easier. I’ve had a bit of practice at all this. Finding safe ways to accept these shaming impulses as part of myself was a huge part of my journey to emotional health. I need to feel just a bit lonely, pathetic, and trapped once in a while. I need to reassess myself.

I breathed, slowed my pace, and took a moment to counter the voices.

You are welcome here. It’s okay to be frustrated. Lonely is okay. Pathetic is okay. Frustrated is okay. Every part of you shadow spaces is fine here. You are a part of me and you belong. But you won’t influence me. You won’t cloud out the rest, the parts that hope and strive, search and create. They belong here too. 

I stopped along the water, watching it splash against the dock. A group of people were crammed on a boat nearby, drinking too much. I thought of the exploring I would do tomorrow, the slow pace I would take, the things I would learn about this city, its history, and the people here. I would find little pieces of me here. I would write, think, plan. I would center.

The demons weren’t gone, but for now, they were at rest. I breathed in ocean air and exhaled negative self-talk. I needed this. I needed this.

Skeleton of myself

I reduced myself before you.

I sucked in my stomach and puffed out my chest,

Seeking to be both small and strong.

I lay at your feet and cried

At my own unworthiness.

I raised my arm to the square

And demanded you notice me.

I ignored your harsh words,

Convinced they were only for my good.

I took on a new name

And thrust my hands in the air

While I begged you to hear the words of my mouth.

I listened, ever so carefully,

So sure that in the silence

I would find you.

I walled off entire sections of me,

separating them from the rest,

forgetting that they were there.

I held my breath

Until I forgot how to breathe.

then turned blue from the cold.

I tried anger, pain, depression, apathy.

I tried being a martyr.

I gave two years. Ten. Twenty.

I placed a ring on my finger

And made promises I couldn’t possibly keep.

And as the years passed,

I slowly, ever so slowly,

Withered away,

Becoming the skeleton of myself

That you expected all along.

And then one day,

The sun hit my skin just right,

And I realized,

With finality,

That you were there all along

For you were never there to begin with.

the intersection of dreams and reality

As a therapist, I regularly tell my clients that sometimes the best way to appreciate where we are in life is to look back at where we were. 

And I hold myself to this frequently. I regularly look backwards so that I can properly assess my current standing and then look forward to the paths I should be on. But lately this has been a struggle for me, in some unexpected ways.

First of all, sometimes I don’t know how far I should be looking back. Do I consider the lonely teenager who was writing ideas down in a notepad yet never really writing anything, that boy who was so strongly holding tightly to Mormonism that he couldn’t see a future ahead in which he was happy? Do I look back to the married Mormon father, who was running a business and writing comic books, yet feeling completely unfulfilled and wondering when he might be able to overcome life’s challenges and actually come out of the closet? Both of those past versions of me clearly give me perspective in the present. They ground me. I look at how far I’ve come and I see my world around me and love the person I am and the life I’ve created.

But my current struggles are far removed from those, in some ways. They are far beyond. They stem more from five years ago and the risks I took back then, and the ways that they have paid off, or not paid off, into this current present.

Five years ago, I took major stock of my life, and I decided to take some huge risks. I quit my job and I launched a personal business, doing therapy for clients on an hourly, private-pay basis. I began sub-letting an office, I upped my rates, and I believed I could do it. I came up with a formula to keep myself financially afloat, and I set big goals to eliminate all of my debt, and to put savings and emergency funding in place should I ever need them. And with hard work and consistency, I achieved these goals, and then set others, like establishing a retirement account and getting better health insurance.

From there, I started listening to what my internal dreams are. Many of them, those that didn’t directly revolve around my children, focused on travel, research, and writing. I started small, taking short weekend trips and reading about things that interested me more often. And then the goals grew bigger and loftier as I started thriving. Travel became more frequent and more adventurous, and I began making a list of places that I had always wanted to see but hadn’t. As I saw more places, the list grew longer. And along the way, I met my boyfriend, and had someone to share this with.

Then I set a lofty goal. I determined that within four years, I would be making a living as a writer and storyteller. I just had to figure out how to do it.

Channeling my love of research and writing, I started doing daily posts on LGBT history, a huge personal passion. Eventually that turned into themed research, and then I turned that into a YouTube station. I started seeing a vision of the future in which I could share my passionate research, in spoken word format, with audiences who would be hungry to learn what I was learning. So I began putting my personal money into web developers and graphic designers to build a platform and an audience to share with. For the following year, I continued to pour money into this venture, loving every moment of the research, and agonizing every moment when the videos were only getting a few dozen views. I was putting money out, and watching numbers in the double digits roll back, and I took it personally. It hurt that I believed in myself so strongly and it wasn’t paying off in the way I’d hoped. My love of research and writing was becoming dominated by the lack of success, and I began to doubt myself.

And so I closed the YouTube channel down. I stopped researching for a time, and I did a lot of self-assessment as I tried learning tough lessons. And then I refocused and tried again, this time on a new project.

I started researching gay hate crimes in Utah. I found a list of names and I started asking questions. I copied court records, make extensive notes, drove throughout the state, and started looking people up. I found graves, recorded memories. And I felt my passion for research returning. I came alive with joy as I began finding stories to tell. Eventually, my primary focus landed on one case, that of Gordon Church, a young man killed in 1988. His murder resulted in two trials for his killers, and one of them ended up on death row. Months went by as I lost myself in this research, and in time, I began thinking that a documentary about this content would be ideal. I found a film company who began working on the project with me, and we completed dozens of interviews, gathering dozens of hours of amazing content. Over a period of 18 months, I watched the project come to fruition, and a film that would end up altering lives would soon be complete. I was on fire.

Until it boiled down to money. Without funding, we couldn’t go forward to editing the film. We needed a minimum of one hundred thousand dollars to finish, though closer to five hundred thousand would be ideal. Believing I could do anything with a project this valuable, I started holding meetings and pitches, even fundraisers, to find the necessary cash. I asked benefactors, support agencies, film studios, and especially local people who had funds and might share my passion for this project. I had dozens of meetings, with politicians and millionaires and everyone in between. Many turned me down. Many said they’d think about it. And a few said they would love to fund the project, but then kind of faded into the distance. And with every failed meeting, my aggravation, pain, and self-doubt returned. I wasn’t finding the right audience, and again, the passion I wanted to share with the world was being replaced by the reality of the world in which I was in. (Note: the film is still in the editing phase, which will take many more months without funding. While I believe it will be finished, it is on a much longer timeline than I had anticipated).

And so, while working on the film, I began seeking out other projects that would help keep my passion and love for research and writing alive. I maintained a blog (trying hard not to get frustrated with the low numbers of readers). I wrote a book, Gay Mormon Dad, and self-published (and tried hard not to take it personally when sales remained abysmally low despite reviews being incredibly high). I formed a monthly story-telling group called Voices Heard and began collaborating with dozens of incredible local story-tellers to share with assembled audiences (and struggled to remain positive when audience numbers remained small when I hoped we would have sell-out shows). These struggles have been manifesting

And now it is summer of 2019. And I’ve been in an emotional spiral these past few months as I’ve considered what to do moving forward. And so, with a bit of perspective and focused attention, I can boil it all down to a list of facts, as I seek to make sense of all of this.

  1. Writing brings me joy. Research, blogging, outlining, interviewing, story-telling, performing, and even editing make me happy. They fulfill a particular part of me. They enrich my spirit. I don’t feel good when I’m not doing them. And writing has been part of me for as long as I can remember, from my very earliest days in childhood.
  2. I can do hard things! And it is good to be confident about those things! I wrote a book, and it’s good! I built and sustained a YouTube Channel for a year, and then made the hard decision to retire it! I researched, and collaborated, and nearly completed a film that is going to be revolutionary! I created, and collaborated, to share stories at a monthly event that I love, and that is so so so good, and I’ve maintained it for over two years now! Believing in myself in crucial, and I’ve shown myself that I can create and sustain things that I ove.
  3. I love collaborating with others. I love forming new friendships with talented people and working together. The men who have made the film with me are among the most genuine and talented individuals I’ve ever had the pleasure of working with, and we have built something special over a period of years together. The story-tellers who perform with me at Voices Heard are so authentic and talented, they leave me stunned with every word; they are enthusiastic and kind and so good at what they do. And every person who has spoken to me about my book, my research, or my writing and has been excited, enthusiastic, and kind in response, to anyone who has believed in me, it has given me a confidence I never knew I was capable of.
  4. Trust is in short supply lately. I hate asking for money, and I hate paying the people for services that they can’t deliver on consistently. I’ve had over a dozen major disappointments over the past few years from people who promised something and couldn’t or didn’t deliver, including offers from publishing companies, major media presences, and benefactors who have offered to cover the costs of the documentary. I’ve reached a place where big offers leave my guard up, and I’m finding it more difficult to take it back down as time goes by.
  5. There are a lot of things I am terrible at. Marketing, graphic design, promotion, and fundraising top the list. Every time one of these topics shows up in my life, I want to scream in response. They bring up pain and insecurity because my failures in these areas directly impact the way I measure success in other areas.
  6. “Success” has become a word that is difficult for me to define. These products that I’m extremely proud of (Gay Mormon Dad, the documentary, Voices Heard, the blog) tend to have relatively small yield in profit, number of readers, or number in the audience. The documentary remains unfinished, I didn’t sell enough copies of the book to cover the costs of printing it (no less the time spent writing it), the blog rarely gets more than 30-40 reads per entry, and Voices Heard consistently only has 20-40 people in the audience (meaning I tend to lose money every month on the costs of putting it all together). It is hard to dwell in the space of gratitude and love that I feel when I write and perform, when I feel the financial and self-esteem hits when not many people are reading or attending the things I’m so proud of.

Writing all of these things down in one place is hard. It’s only after literal months of personal reflection and riding these waves that I’m even able to articulate what is happening within me. The intersection of the joy I get from writing, and the reality that I’ll likely never make a living doing it… sitting in that intersection and feeling both sides is difficult, but its the only way forward. I have to do what I do because I love it. I have to have hope that I can do more, that I will someday achieve the success I someday hope for, while simultaneously accepting that that may never happen, and still be okay and believe in myself while accepting that reality. I can’t give up on my dreams, yet I also can’t keep beating myself up when they aren’t achieved in a particular way. I have to change how I define success. I have to challenge myself at being better while accepting where I currently am. That intersection is uncomfortable, even painful, yet I’m working very hard to find peace with its existence.

And so, today, I sat down to write about it. I wrote about my journey, and what I’ve learned. I expressed my pains and doubts, my beliefs and hopes. And just like every time before, I feel better now that I have. I feel inspired. Capable. And soon I’ll click publish and know that only 20 to 50 people will read it. I have to embrace both sides of that. I knew that going in to this blog.

And I wrote it anyway.

And therein lies my lesson.

Fulfilled

Years ago, I stopped letting myself

contemplate the paths not taken. 

I was still grieving then, over my years in the closet, 

and it hurt to think about the life I might have had. 

Instead, I chose to focus on what is, 

strengthening an already constructed platform,

with children and debts, a college degree, Mormon roots, 

and equal parts curiosity and determination. 

From there, I would build. Reach. Strive. Begin. 

 

But today, my mind slipped into a parallel world. 

 

I saw myself… elsewhere. 

In Denver or New York City or Amsterdam. 

An apartment with a balcony. Careful furnishings. 

A closet full of well-made suits and shoes. 

Season passes to the symphony, the theater, the opera. 

An office, seeing patients and changing lives. 

A billion frequent flier miles. A gym routine. 

Dinner parties with wine and friends and laughter. 

I saw him, that other me. 

He was watching the sun set from his balcony, 

a glass of brandy in his hand. 

He looked happy. Fit. Lonely. 

Fulfilled. 

He had light and clarity in his eyes. 

 

He saw me too. 

Writing. Investigating. Confused. Striving. Spread thin and unsure. 

A home with bedrooms full of toys. A shelf of memories. 

An office, seeing patients and changing lives. 

Children at my side, laughing constantly. 

An arm over my boyfriend’s hip as he sleeps against me. 

He saw me swimming in unfamiliar waters, 

unsure of my destination, or even of which stroke to use. 

My flailing confidence, my fierce determination, 

my desire for something more. 

I looked happy. Fit. Lonely. 

Fulfilled. 

I had light and clarity in my eyes.

He saw me in a field, turned toward the sun as it set in the distance, 

fists clenched.

 

He saw me. I saw him. 

He raised his glass. I nodded kindly. 

 

“You’re so lucky,” we said in unison. 

“You’re so richly blessed.”

 

And then the sun set and he faded from view. 

skinheart

at times, my heart seems made of skin

bared for breath or covered for protection

reacting to ever-changing boundaries and limits,

sounds and space,

climate and condition.

soft and pink,

white at the center when gently pressed,

blanched in panic when squeezed too hard,

and, when set free, pink and pooling as safety is restored.

soft mostly, but also

callused where worn,

scarred where cut,

evidence of healing where bleeding used to be.

gooseflesh at just the right gust or whisper.

tightly sealed for protection,

or weeping in times of fever, times of pain or burn or blister.

layers deep,

each one durable, pliable, paper-thin,

each blood-red at the center.

it curls over me, around my skull, down my spine, stretching to my extremities.

and then, at the certain place, for the certain person,

it trusts,

staying soft and smooth as fingertips trace its edges.

Learning to hate

shadow

Hate.

Humans are the only species that hates. We dominate. We smother, choke, and silence. Anything that is inconvenient to us. Anything that isn’t like us. Anything that makes us uncomfortable. Even when, especially when, it is within us.

I was raised by a loving mother in a busy family home. She taught me to follow God, to love my neighbor, to be a good and ethical person who is kind and Christlike. Every Sunday, we sat in church and sang songs of the love of God while learning about family, service, eternal bonds, and sacrifice. It was idyllic. It was wonderful. Except I didn’t fit the mold.

I realized early on that I was gay. I didn’t have the words, but I knew I was different as young as age 5. And I learned to hide. I know I didn’t fit. I wasn’t like the other kids around me. God had made me different. The messages of love I was being taught became conditional, based on my ability to conform.

There were no hateful messages delivered across the pulpit in my Mormon congregation. There were no sermons on how gay people should burn in Hell. There was just no mention of gay people at all, anytime, ever. Mumbled conversations in hallways about the AIDS epidemic being a curse from God toward the immoral, yes. But no hate speech against gay people. And this silence spoke volumes.

Instead, there were reinforced narratives. Poster boards showing the paths that everyone takes to get into Heaven. Worthiness. Obedience. Sacrifice. Church attendance, scripture study, repentance, baptism. Ordinations, temple attendance, tithing, two years as a missionary. And then, marriage to a woman and children and service in the church for a lifetime. All to ensure that whatever came next, after this life, would be good. A life with God, rich with blessings and family.

And I didn’t fit into that. Right off, in learning how to blend in, I learned how to deny those deeper parts of myself. Every television show, every story book, every song on the radio reinforced that men were men, and women were women, and men were supposed to be with women. There was no alternative. I knew no gay people. I had no role models for a successful or happy gay life. There was only one path, only one way. And so I learned to hide. To lie. To seek a cure. To try and fix it. All without anyone ever pointing a finger at me that said “You are broken, fix yourself.” They didn’t have to point. I just knew I was broken.

Until I turned 15. When I was 15, I finally asked for help. And a kind religious leader gave me a book that was written by a long-dead Mormon prophet, a book written before I was born. Homosexuality is a sin. A crime next to murder. An abomination. A curse. A curable curse, but a curse nonetheless. It was detestable, horrific, a blight upon the land. I got the message loud and clear. Everything I’d ever worried about myself in silence was confirmed in print. I was broken. I learned to hide even more.

Hate can be subtle. It isn’t always like a fist to the face, sometimes it is more like shadow, creeping over walls and under doors, unseen until you learn to see it clearly. I didn’t fit. I was an abomination. God created me in his image, but he made me different. He loved me without condition, yet I was an abomination. He expected honesty and authenticity in service, yet I didn’t know how to face myself. I had no narrative, no ability to speak truth. And so I hid. In plain sight. For decades. He hated me. Those around me hated me. And I learned, early and deeply, to hate myself.

The boys at school weren’t so subtle. Manhood needed to be proven there. Athletic prowess, an interest in girls, a tolerance for pain, no show of emotions. Be a man. And anyone who wasn’t a man, they got called the humiliating names, the ones that every boy dreaded. Sissy. Fag. Queer. Homo. Fairy. Faggot. Fudgepacker. Playground taunts would go dark and extreme sometimes. “You can’t throw a ball, you fag, go die of AIDS.” Children saying this. Children.

And every word, directed at me or at anyone else, sent quivers through my soul. They shook me to my core. I was so scared of being exposed. What if someone caught me looking at a guy. What if I got a boner at the wrong time. When if I wasn’t good enough, man enough, at any given moment. And so I learned to hide, deeper and darker. I learned to lie even more. In order to survive.

When I mix these three origin stories: the suffer-in-silence child side, the not-man-enough-little-queer-kid side, and the God-created-a-monster side, it boils down a complicated stew of self-hatred. It’s a miracle I survived. It’s a miracle any of us did. I used to shut entire parts of my brain, my body, my psyche, my spirit. I shut them down so I could stop feeling, so I could try to survive. It physically hurt. I’d stare at myself in the mirror and call myself names for not being man enough. I’d sob my eyes out in anguished prayer while begging for a cure. I’d look girls in the eye and tell them that I was interested in them, of course, as I delivered some excuse for not engaging in physical activity with them. I hated myself, because I just knew that everyone hated me.

Hate.

It’s only in the last few years that I’ve learned to hear and share the stories of others. My story is my own, but it is in no way unique. There are millions of other gay Mormons from across the decades who learned to be silent like I was, who learned to believe God hated them. They considered suicide, and in some cases completed it. They submitted themselves to therapy practices that promised a cure. They got electro-shocked, harming their brains in the hope of reducing or eliminating their sexual attractions. They got married and then cheated on their wives, hoping to never get caught. They were excommunicated, disowned, extorted by the police, and assaulted for being gay. In the worst cases, they were killed, by men who learned to hate other men for being gay.

And it isn’t limited to Mormons. Gay people in every corner of the world, in every country, culture, religion, and time period, have learned the same hate. In some culture, the hate comes from God and religion. In others, it is societal norms or government practices. Hatred has become generational. It’s in the DNA of gay people. It crosses every border and barrier. It is the shadow on the wall, the one I forget to look for sometimes.

I’ve been out of the closet for eight years now, and I love my life. My home, my job, my partner, my children.  I see a future for myself, where I once saw no future. And in my work as a therapist, and as a storyteller, I’ve learned to embrace the stories of queer people as they begin to sort all of this out and learn how to love themselves. They began to see clearly how they learned how to hide in their own homes. And then they start to look at the world around them and figure out how to live in it, how to understand and even embrace the hate and use it to propel themselves forward. It is an epic and exhausting journey, and one that gets easier with time.

And I don’t hate that at all.

In fact, I love it.

Love.